Burning Up
by hattalove
Summary: They're both at the end of their rope when they tangle. Neither of them can feel much – that's why neither of them notices that someone had set fire to them until it's too late. Puckurt.


I can't kiss him. I can't be gentle with him. I can't _feel_ anything for him.

I repeat it like a mantra in my head every time I'm fucking him into the mattress. That's the truth, and it's what I have to believe, because I'm Noah Puckerman and I'm supposed to be a badass.

Too bad no one fucking asked my heart.

I'm pretty sure neither of us actually knows how it happened. We were just two losers left behind in Lima, Ohio, neither of us accepted to college, because I had no reason to try and he'd tried too hard. It was surprising to run into him getting shitfaced in a bar, but not unexpected. I've heard about people spotting him around town, stumbling drunk and singing showtunes and I'm sure I must have thought he was really fucking pathetic – I don't remember anymore. I've forced the place where my feelings and opinions about him are stashed into the back of my mind so I can pretend I don't think about him every waking minute.

We ended up fucking in the back alley with no lube. I should've cared about what's he going to think when he wakes up somewhere inside his house with his pants barely on and his ass burning, and maybe I have, but I was content to blame it all on the two beers I've drank.

When he told me to call him sometime, I was just about to run home and punch something and curse my fucking libido for getting me involved with Kurt Hummel, who's probably going to want me to hold his hand and take him to romantic dinners, complete with red wine and fucking candles.

Except when I ended up in his bed again, he took off his clothes and rolled over; left himself at my mercy like he had nothing left to lose, and he probably hadn't.

It's become a regular thing, maybe even too regular, because no matter what I do, every second night ends in his stupid basement room with him writhing underneath me and my legs getting tangled in his stupid cashmere blanket.

I take him hard. Every time, sometimes so hard even I don't like it. I'm always frantic to prove how much he doesn't matter to me, how insignificant he is.

He's like a porcelain doll. His skin is glowing, white, almost translucent sometimes, and the grip I have on his hips – the only place on his body I actually ever touch - always leaves bruises.

Nobody should be allowed to lay a hand on him. Especially not me.

I guess the years of being a cheap whore have numbed me - that's why I take him the way I want, only caring about my own pleasure, not his. I'm well past the point where I want to make sex good for whoever it is I'm having it with, because they let me be intimate with them and I feel special; past the point where my reputation as a sex shark won't let me leave anybody until I was sure they had a good time.

I see fear in his eyes sometimes, afterwards.

Pain.

I don't know how he does it, being the romantic he is. I am fully aware I'm using him in the worst way possible, and I sure as hell know I should stop.

But he never says a word, never turns his face from where he hides it in the pillow so he can actually see me, and I him. There's lust in his eyes, sometimes – he wants me, too, and I won't stop. Not until I break him, myself, or both of us.

He can wear makeup whe he's kicking me out after I fall asleep on accident. He can let his hair loose to shadow his eyes, but I always know he's been crying. There's a part of me that dies inside over and over when I see the red rimming his eyes, and something tugs at me to help him, but I'm just as screwed up and have to focus to hold my own shit together. He wouldn't want me to, anyway; even a drunk mechanic working at his father's shop in the most loser town on this planet, letting himself be fucked raw by his old high school bully, he's too proud. It fascinates me; how his whole life can fall apart around him, but he only focuses on his own image of himself, keeps his dignity intact.

I wish I could do that, too. I stopped counting how many mirrors I broke because I couldn't stand the sight of my loser face. There's something in me every time I come home after a night with Kurt – a different person I guess I could've been, have I actually cared about myself enough to get decent grades, stop whoring around, and get out of Lima. He's not completely dead, which never fails to amuse me, because I know I can never be him now; not after I've stooped this low.

I don't think I want to be this guy; a pool cleaner with no future, no past and no passion, but being different would take too much. Too many things would change, and every day, I find myself a new excuse to disguise I'm scared.

I can't change. I won't. So many girls and women I've been with, and none of them has changed me - I doubt Kurt Hummel could.

(Except he already has.)

I tried getting us both out, once. I didn't know much about him, but I wanted him to get in a car and go as far away from me and this town as possible – it was poison, killing the person he'd wanted to be, he still could be, if he gathered the will to try.

"I just wanted a fuck, that's all!" is what I shouted, and it might have been the truh a few weeks before, but then, I was just scared out of my mind. Maybe if I was louder, tried harder, he could see what he was doing; finally wake up and see the loser he's got himself involved with, leave me behind and go be fabulous, like he was supposed to. I've already convinced myself I wouldn't care, would let him and wouldn't drown myself in whiskey the second I saw the taillights of his car.

Except the only thing that happened was a sharp slap landing on my face - it wasn't a surprise.

"You better think about that again," he replied, and the old Kurt Hummel flickered in his expression for a second, the one that strolled down the hallways in a corset and didn't care what anybody thought.

And so I stayed. Fucked him once again. It was the same, but it still felt different.

I should have left afterwards. According to the deal we had, I should have waited until he fell asleep and just climbed out of the window like a fucking thief.

I should have, because when I hestiated too long, he turned, and half asleep reached out his hand. He pulled me a little closer, whispered _don't leave again_, but I don't think he realized what he was doing.

I've never really felt his hands on my skin before (rule number two, _No Touching_) and the warmth it sent through my whole body, together with the panic rising in my chest, kept me awake the whole night.

His face in the morning, when he felt and then saw me, made me run again.

Then there's this one time, after I've just buried my mother, when everything is a little blurry around the edges. I just let myself go.

"It hurt," I say, don't ask, because I know. It's probably seeing my mother in so much pain before her last breath left her body, that makes me think about the way I forced it on him and he never complained.

"Of course it hurt," he replies. His voice is hard, face like stone, and he probably thinks I won't notice the way his hands tremble where he stuffs them in his pockets. He's trying so hard to not let me see how much pain I caused him, and I don't know what I did to deserve it.

It doesn't take long for his eyes to fill with tears. When he reaches out a hand, I move closer, not even thinking about it, and when he kisses me, I might be starting to realize how very few things I did right with my life. I catch his face in my hands when he pulls away.

"I just broke the deal," he says (rule number three, _No Kissing_). He's shaking, his breath hot on my lips, and the fear I see in his eyes tells me to walk away.

Well. When have I ever listened?

"Fuck the deal," I whisper, his hair tickling my face and I let it, relishing in the _touch_. "Just fuck it, okay? Let's go to sleep."

When I steer him towards the bed, I'm crying.

There's so many things I told him way too late.

"I don't want to hurt you," I said, except I already have, over and over way too many times.

"You're beautiful," I said, my hand in his, just looking into his eyes with _Die Hard _reflected in them.

"I love you," I said, scared out of my mind and laid bare in front of him, all my cards on the table and nothing left to play.

"Let's do it your way, then," I said, and only then, seeing and feeling him properly for the first time, all around me, did I realize. There were so many things_ not _happening, and it was good.

He didn't shake and didn't bite his hand to muffle the sounds he was making. There were no quiet sobs I was determined to pretend were voices of pleasure – no violent flinches when he sat up on the bed before going into the shower.

"You know the way I am. You should probably walk away, you know," I said, and closed my eyes for a second, so I wouldn't see him stand up and leave, but none of that happened.

His eyes narrowed, then he sat up on the bed and crawled towards me. His lips softly touched my shoulder, sending out goosebumps onto every inch of my skin.

He'd made his choice and my chest felt so tight I couldn't breathe.

There's no telling if we'll destroy or heal each other - all I know is, I'm not letting him go.

Now, lying with him safely sleeping in my arms, I finally let myself press a kiss to his temple, to his cheek, let my hands touch his skin softly, the way it's supposed to be touched. I know he's safe and with me – both things at the same time, for the first time.

And that's how I finally fall in love.

I'm so sorry.


End file.
